The mirror Brie looked back at me, smudged and haunted, her mouth set in a bitter line.
I shut the light off and let her disappear.
I flicked the lights back on, eventually. The mirror made a soft whine as it warmed, like it didn’t want to see me either.
The second time around, I looked harder. I’d read somewhere that mirrors reveal the soul if you stare long enough, but all I got was a too-thin face and the beginnings of worry lines. Not what Paris promised. Not what I’d promised myself.
I pulled a silk scarf—blue with little golden fleurs-de-lis—from the jewelry tray and knotted it around my throat, too tight. The collar was a habit from France, where everything mattered more if you wore it with conviction. Here, in Texas, it just made me look like I had something to hide.
I was supposed to be sophisticated. That was the deal: Brie the cosmopolitan, the artist, the younger sister who never let a man define her. But if I peeled back even a square inch, all you’d see was failure. The charity casehiding behind MAC foundation and overpriced scarves. The girl who’d betrayed her sister, then tried to pretty up the truth.
Two weeks since the run-in with Gunner, I’d tried to be any place he might not be. I avoided the Compound, avoided Pearl’s, I even avoided the goddamn grocery store, just in case his wolf senses would let him smell me down the freezer aisle. When Harper asked, I told her I was “reassessing.” I didn’t mention that every molecule of air in Dairyville had a Gunner flavor to it.
Why the hell was I like this? Why did it feel safer to believe I was too good for all this—too French, too damaged, too whatever—when the truth was I’d let Luc Renault fuck me up so bad I couldn’t even want a good thing, let alone deserve it?
The flashbacks came in smells and colors. Wet grass, sugar smoke, the tinny reek of Champagne on Luc’s breath when he whispered secrets in my ear. He was nothing like Gunner: Luc was sharp, polished, the kind of man who never needed to say he was dangerous because you knew by the way he watched you over his glass. He taught me how to drink absinthe, how to fake a Parisian accent, how to cut myself off from my wolf so I could be what he wanted—a human with a hint of extra. He called me “my little American,” like I was a pet project. I liked it. No, I craved it. Attention was currency, and I needed to be rich.
He’d used me, of course. The whole time, he’d been working for Waylon Steiner, waiting for the right moment to hand me and Harper over. And I let him, because I liked feeling needed more than I liked feeling safe.
The shame of it burned hotter than Gunner’s filthy words ever could. I dabbed highlighter on the tips of my cheekbones, trying to catch the light, but it only made the skin look harsher, more haunted.
I tried to meet my own eyes, but couldn’t.
When Arsenal and his team finally busted into that warehouse, I was so relieved. I was so afraid Steiner was going to kill Harper. The way he was beating her was almost more than I could bear. I was responsible forthat. My fucking stupidity caused her suffering, and the shame of that was something I didn’t think I could ever get over. I knew Harper would forgive me, because Harper was built from forgiveness. Me? I’d never forgiven myself.
I’d gone straight from rescue to hiding out in Dairyville, refusing to let anyone see the cracks. Pearl said I was “healing,” but I knew better. I was covering old wounds with new glitter.
I touched up my lipstick with the edge of my pinky finger. It was a shade called “Unimpressed,” which made me laugh, but the sound came out thin and scratchy.
“Who are you kidding?” I made myself hold the gaze.
I remembered the way I’d talked to Harper in that cell. I was cruel to her. I told her she always thought she was better than me. What a bitch I’d been. And why? Harper was always kind to me. I was just jealous. Our parents fucking threw her away, and I chose to treat her badly because I couldn’t believe Luc was using me. I believed a stranger over my flesh and blood. What did that say about me?
I wiped the lipstick off, then redid it, this time perfectly. My hands didn’t shake anymore; they were frozen, numb. I added more blush, hoping for a healthy flush, but it looked painted and desperate.
I’d been a coward even with Gunner. I’d dodged him for two weeks, pretending like I had something better to do than sit at Pearl’s and eat greasy fries while pretending not to look for him in the crowd. I told myself I didn’t want a small-town cowboy, that I was meant for art and cities and maybe Paris again, someday. But the second he’d put his hand on my hip at County Line, my knees had gone soft and my wolf had bared her belly to him. I wanted that raw, brute thing he offered, and it disgusted me.
I caught myself hunching in the mirror, shoulders rounded, chin tucked like I was hiding from a fist. I straightened, forced my head up. The posture lasted half a second before I slumped again.
God, I hated this. I hated that Harper was so happy she glowed, that the pack had embraced her as if she’d never been away. I hated that even my own mother, brittle and vain as she was, had found peace somewhere in this town, drinking sweet tea on the porch and gossiping with Pearl like she’d been born here.
Me? I was the cautionary tale, the one who’d never fit. The one who could be bought for the right mix of praise and punishment.
A fly banged itself against the vanity bulb, desperate for the light. I almost envied it.
I scrolled through my phone, pretending to be busy, but every app was just a distraction from the panic gnawing at my insides. Every time the phone lit, I hoped it would be Gunner, then hated myself for hoping. He’d made it clear I was the one who needed to chase—he was never going to make it easy.
Maybe he knew what I was. Maybe he’d looked through my eyes and seen the rot underneath. Maybe that’s why he’d left me stewing in my own humiliation, two weeks and counting.
I checked my reflection one last time, searching for a sign that the mask would hold. The blush was too harsh, the brows uneven, but the lips were a masterpiece. I forced a smile, all teeth. My wolf turned away, ashamed of me.
The worst part? I deserved it.
I must have sat there, staring at nothing, for ten whole minutes before I realized my hands had gone numb.
The makeup brush was still clutched in my right hand, the bristles smeared with the last of my “healthy glow.” I set it down, deliberate, like the world might shatter if I moved too fast. It rolled off the edge and clattered to the floor, but I couldn’t make myself care.
The room felt empty—vacuumed out, like after a storm. All the frantic energy was gone, replaced with something heavier and quieter. Maybe thatwas what resignation felt like. Or maybe it was just grief. For the girl I’d wanted to be. For the mess I’d made of things.
